


Love, Last Minutes and Lost Evenings

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3088436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning to Baker Street was supposed to ease my broken heart, not add to it, but I’m finding that being constantly around Sherlock is only exacerbating my problems. It’s not his fault I can’t control myself around him. He’s always been an enabler, but I can try to contain my reactions to his obvious need for companionship. I can be that to him: a friend and confidant, his protector and healer, his unfailing center when the world gets to be too much, even if I can never have from him what I ultimately want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Last Minutes and Lost Evenings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancientreader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/gifts).



> Written for snarryfool (ancientreader) for the Holmestice winter fic exchange! Epic thanks to thesmallhobbit and scarletcurls for their endless patience and understanding, even while making sure this story made even the slightest bit of sense. Thanks also to femmequixotic, whose brilliant formatting I shamelessly borrowed.
> 
> Title stolen from Frank Turner.

**Love, Last Minutes and Lost Evenings**

 

 

This is what I remember:

 

The crisp, sharp air of November as it seeps up around my open collar; the sweet, clean scent of Earl Grey wafting from the paper cup between my palms; the satisfying crunch of leaves against the pavement as they crush beneath my feet.

 

I return to Baker Street in the autumn of 2016, trying desperately to erase the last four years of my miserable life. It seems fitting somehow, that Sherlock would be the beginning and the end of all of my recent troubles. His irresistible pull had been difficult to ignore, but I think a part of me always knew I’d end up here again. The flat smells exactly as it always had: equal parts dust, tea, corrosive chemicals and overpriced aftershave. It’s comforting in a way it maybe shouldn’t be, but that’s part of how I ended up back here, I suppose.

 

Sherlock doesn’t bother to help me with my bags and boxes as I trudge up the creaky staircase, depositing what’s left of my belongings across the achingly familiar surfaces of my old room at the top of the building. It’s less dusty that I would have imagined—Mrs Hudson’s doing no doubt. She seems simply delighted to see me again and I find I’m startled by how frail she looks. I suppose it’s only to be expected. She wasn’t exactly young when I first met her and living with Sherlock doesn’t do anyone’s grey hairs any favors, believe me.

 

It’s comforting in a way, that Sherlock seems exactly the same as he always has been, but I can tell he’s changed as much as I have and in ways I don’t fully understand. I catch him staring at me sometimes when he clearly thinks I’m not paying attention; like if he looks away, I’ll somehow vanish. I know the feeling. I recognize it from my own reflection in the mirror.

 

We fall into a routine of sorts, and I’m happier than I should be about the normality of my insane life with this ridiculous madman. It’s nice to feel needed again, to feel wanted for more than a court date or a guilt-ridden lecture. I suppose it’s what made me love him in the first place, and now that I’m older and presumably wiser, I’ll not miss my chance to tell him should the opportunity present itself.

 

Unpacking my case into the small wardrobe feels like an odd sense of deja-vu and by the time everything is tucked neatly away in its place, it looks like I never even left. He’s sitting in the kitchen when I come down, bare feet slapping quietly against the worn surface of the stairs. It looks like he’s in the middle of something caustic, but he looks up when he sees me hovering in the doorway and I’d be a filthy liar if I said my heart didn’t give a little heave of pressure.

 

“It took you long enough,” he murmurs quietly, and I’m unsure for a moment if he means my unpacking or my moving back at all, but then his lips twitch and his grin is blinding in its intensity and I feel like I’m falling in more ways than one.

 

“Yeah, well,” I try for casual, but I know I’m failing judging by his small smirk. “I guess I just needed some time.”

 

He nods his understanding and goes back to his experiment, but I can see by the way his mouth curls up at the edges that he’s as pleased as I am to have me back here.

 

“Anything on?” I ask, briskly shaking the last of the melancholy thoughts from my head with one long roll of my spine.

 

“Possibly,” he says, sounding distracted, but I know I have his full attention even if his eyes are still glued to his microscope. “Lestrade’s been texting for hours. Something about a triple homicide and a desk lamp.”

 

“Why in the world didn’t you go?” I ask incredulously. It sounds just like the type of mystery he loves, and I run a practiced eye over his form, looking for signs of injury or coercion.

 

“Busy,” he replies shortly, but I can tell from the poise of his muscles that he’s dying to jump into his Belstaff and take the city by storm. His gaze slides sidelong to mine and my heart seems to skip several beats before racing to catch up. I suddenly know exactly why he’s been waiting and I’m torn between exasperation and gratitude.

 

“Well,” I say eventually, clearing my throat around the warm swell of affection. “You don’t look busy now.”

 

His lips quirk up into a slow smile and he rises elegantly to his feet, buttoning his jacket and reaching for his mobile. I chase him down the stairs and into a taxi, grateful for the distraction and wonderful familiarity of a new case.

 

It’s the best homecoming I could have ever asked for.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The salty-sweet burst of coconut milk and curry across my tongue from my favorite Thai place around the corner; the heavy fall of rain as it cascades miserably down the windowpanes; the soft glow of the television as its light lingers along Sherlock’s jaw, accenting his fine bone structure as he grumbles around a mouthful of fried rice.

 

There’s a comfortable sort of intimacy between us that has been markedly missing for nearly a year; ever since Mary and the debacle last Christmas, but I’m frankly sick of talking about that, so I’ll move on for now.

 

Sherlock sneaks his chopsticks into my curry bowl for the third time and I huff out what I hope sounds like a vague chastisement, but I know it falls flat at the fond look of smug satisfaction he gives me. It’s nice to sit here with him, piled up on the old leather sofa in the cozy confines of our personal sanctuary. Baker Street has always been more of a home to me than I’d ever cared to admit, but it means absolutely nothing without Sherlock’s incendiary presence, and I’m too old to ignore the way my heart swells at the thought.

 

“John?” he asks, and I’m startled to find I’ve been staring at him for the better part of the episode of whatever show we’re watching right now.

 

“Sorry,” I mumble and turn back to my curry, slightly horrified that I’ve been caught out so thoroughly. I don’t think he’ll make a fuss, but there’s a lingering trepidation that makes me honestly nervous that he’ll some day tire of me and my pathetic crush. It makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat, and I suddenly feel like I’m back in secondary school; chatting up Daphne Turner for the first time between classes.

 

“No,” he starts, and the hesitation in his voice causes my gaze to snap back to his. “It’s… fine,” he says with a small smile that makes my heart clench.

 

I’m trying to remember how to breathe again when he leans to the side, smoothly depositing his cardboard container of rice onto the coffee table before his head drops heavily onto my shoulder. I can’t help the soft grin that creeps across my lips as he shuffles around, getting comfortable. He’s like an overgrown cat; all sharp elbows and bony knees and soft, fragrant hair. He seems to settle eventually and I find myself with an armful of lanky genius, his head resting firmly on my pectoral, my arm slung around his shoulder, the battered old quilt tucked neatly beneath his feet.

 

I let loose a sigh of fond exasperation and bend forward to put my dinner on the table next to his before making a show of getting comfortable myself, shifting him a little as I nudge the take-away over and stretch my legs across to rest on the table. I take the chance and bury my fingers into his thick curls, ignoring the way my stomach swoops as he sighs and leans into my touch.

 

“I’m your personal cushion now, am I?” I mutter around a smile.

 

“Problem?” he asks, tilting his head to stare up at me. He’s so close I can feel his breath across my lips as he exhales, and the temptation to lean down the remaining inches and press my mouth to his is nearly overwhelming. I can feel the heat of my desire flooding through my cheeks and I know he can read it all over my face like a bloody map, but the small flash of uncertainty behind his eyes is enough to stop me in my tracks. Instead, I merely tousle his hair and heave a put-upon sigh.

 

“Not at all,” I say as casually as I can, knowing I made the right decision as he relaxes back into me like a wiry duvet. He blinks once before turning his head back to the television.

 

“This show is rubbish,” he muses a few minutes later, and I chuckle into the top of his head even as I reach for the remote.

 

“ _Call the Midwife_ Christmas special it is,” I say cheerfully and laugh outright at his look of abject horror.

 

It’s the first time I’ve laughed in months.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The cloyingly sweet smell of cinnamon as it edges up around the foil coverings of holiday candles; the overwhelming throng of people as they scurry about looking for the best deals on crap they don’t need; the swamping humidity of the heaters at Tesco as they overcompensate to battle the biting chill of early December.

 

Christmas is stifling in its yearly fanfare, a trying time for anyone with any family to speak of, and even more so with a background like mine. It was Christmas Day that my father left for firewood and never came back. It was Boxing Day when Harry decided to drink herself into a coma that the doctors weren’t sure she’d recover from. It was Christmas when I decided to make amends with my lying twat of a wife in lieu of taking a chance with the love of my life.

 

Christmas is fucking miserable.

 

I’m so tired of being sad all the time, of wondering where in the world I went so utterly, horribly wrong. The holidays bring out the best and worst in people, and I hate to sound like a cliché, but I kind of wish the entire thing would bugger off so I could get pissed with Sherlock and watch _Doctor Who_.

 

I shuffle through the aisles with my trolley, unconsciously picking out the biscuits I know Sherlock likes and the marmalade he will eat by the spoonful if I don’t hide it, cringing around the cacophony of badly tuned Christmas music and praying my aching leg doesn’t decide to give out on me entirely. Psychosomatic or not, it hurts like it’s been hit with fucking shrapnel right now and I wobble a little as I snatch at a box of Lemsip. I can feel my teeth grating with the need to keep up my ‘public image’ face, blandly smiling at anyone who succeeds in catching my eye despite my best efforts. It’s a struggle, but I manage to escape relatively unscathed.

 

There are no taxis to be had and a few blocks would be laughable anyway, so I heft the plastic bags up my wrists and brace myself against the damp chill that seems to shudder its way through to my very bones. London is covered with a thin sheen of treacherous frost that would be beautiful if I weren’t convinced it’s going to get me killed.

 

I had almost forgotten how much I missed the city; the seemingly endless crush of people, the bright lights and loud noises, the glorious anonymity of being one among a dozen in a crowd. It’s comforting in a strange way—blending into the background. I’ve never been one for the spotlight, myself, which is probably another reason for my inexplicable attraction to Sherlock Holmes. He makes me feel needed without drawing attention to me. He allows me to linger in the shadows while he takes the direct scrutiny. In turn, I keep him grounded when his thoughts run away with his magnificent brain and I like to think I act like a buffer between himself and the rest of the less than understanding world. It’s a lovely symbiotic relationship that I shamelessly rely upon, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all, so I don’t bother myself with semantics.

 

The flat is wonderfully warm when I finally shuffle in through the doorway, dutifully dropping a new box of shortbread at Mrs Hudson’s door and shifting most of the bags to my right hand. Sherlock is draped over the sofa exactly where I left him six hours ago, but the sad pile of used tissues has grown exponentially on the coffee table, and it’s a struggle not to laugh at the pitiful picture he presents.

 

“Feeling any better?” I ask as I set the bags on the worktop. He groans melodramatically, but it turns into a cough halfway through and I try to tamp back my inappropriate smile at his obvious distress. It takes a lot to keep Sherlock down for long, but this year’s round of influenza is proving too tenacious for even the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

“John, I think I’m dying,” he wheezes and I feel my amusement flutter into something that feels suspiciously like the tender trappings of besotted affection.

 

“You’re not dying,” I say softly, rolling my eyes, but moving towards him anyway. He looks shockingly young with his cheeks all rosy from the fever, his eyes glassy and wide and his hair a mess of sweaty curls. I cannot help but go to him, nudging aside the pile of disgusting tissues with my hip and sitting gingerly on the edge of the coffee table. I reach a hand forward and smooth back his hair, ignoring the way my heart seems to jump into my throat at his soft moue of discomfort.

 

He turns his face into my palm and I feel like I’m melting. He gives a little shiver and I automatically tug at the blanket around his shoulders, tucking it under his weight and smoothing my palm down the long line of his arm. He’s so wonderfully vulnerable in this moment and it takes all of my willpower not to bend down and place a kiss across his forehead.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and my hand stalls before I can catch myself.

 

“It’s not your fault,” I say around a thick swell of sentiment. “You couldn’t have possibly predicted your own body’s inability to fight off an infection this aggressive.”

 

He huffs a little, but doesn’t protest as I pat his shoulder and move towards the kitchen, grabbing the box of Lemsip and turning the taps on as hot as they will go. A moment later and I’ve got him in a semi-sitting position, coaxing and cajoling until he finally gives in and takes a tentative sip. He grimaces at the taste, but manages the rest of the cup under my watchful gaze. I settle on the end of the table again and brush my fingers through his hair, hating the way my heart clenches at his obvious discomfort.

 

“You’ll be alright,” I say softly, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as wrecked as I feel. It’s already been a long week and Christmas is still 14 days away.

 

“I know,” he mumbles into the last dregs of his mug. “I’ve got an excellent physician.” He gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something about his expression—the way he’s fidgeting restlessly like he does when he knows he has to be honest and doesn’t want to—that’s making me unaccountably nervous.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he repeats, and an odd mix of trepidation and incredulity slides unwelcome into my gut.

 

“I told you,” I begin, my voice harsher than I intended. “It’s fine.”

 

His long fingers catch around my wrist and he pulls me inexplicably closer, holding me tethered and keeping me removed at once. He’s still feverish and drowsy, but his eyes are clear and focused when he catches my gaze. He looks intent and nervous, and something hard and cold seems to sink slowly down through my abdomen. I’ve seen that look on him before, and it never bodes well for either of us.

 

“Not about getting sick,” he says softly, and I can hear a modicum of his usual haughty exasperation beneath the gravity of his tone. “About everything, John. About Mary and Magnussen, and I’m sorry I never told you—that I never said—”

 

Something twists in my gut and I press the fingers of my free hand across his mouth, stopping his damning words before they can escape. “Don’t,” I choke, feeling the claustrophobic ring of guilt and uncertainty beginning to close around my lungs. I feel caged and cornered, and my fight or flight instincts kick in with a jarring sense of unreality.

 

“John,” he whispers through my hold and it feels like the world is crashing down around me with blurring speed. Anger and grief roll thick and heavy through my chest along with a healthy dose of nausea and I wonder for one hysterical moment if he’s given me his terrible sickness. It’s still too raw, too vulnerable and I feel his penetrating stare like a live wire across my open nerves.

 

I hate feeling this way: like one wrong word will shatter the fragile cage I’ve built around myself, like his very presence in my life is both incredibly comforting and horrifically grating. Resentment tastes acidic and vile across the back of my tongue and I barely resist the urge to pull away and lash out; to crumble all of his theories and deductions with one all-encompassing sweep of my inherent violence.

 

I realize I’m shaking and extricate myself from his hold as gently as I’m able while still managing to get as far away from this awful scene as I can. I mumble a vague apology as I step into my shoes, knowing with a gnawing sense of dread that if I stay in this room with him for one second longer, I will undoubtedly say or do something that will break the one last good thing I have left in my life.

 

The air outside is frigid and damp and I shudder around the gasping sobs that try to force their way up my throat. My coat hangs haphazardly across my shoulders, tugged askew in my cowardly haste to rid myself of his unending omniscience. I don’t want him to see me this way; to know just exactly how broken I am.

 

I walk until my leg gives out, collapsing onto a park bench and feeling like I’m shattering under the weight of decision and consequence. The cold seeps up through my trousers and into my skin, numbing and harsh in equal measure. I don’t want to listen to his heartfelt apologies and know that I want him to say so much more.

 

I can’t listen to him tell me how much I matter, yet knowing it will never be enough. I don’t want to lose him again over my own blundering stupidity and inability to understand my own desires. It’s suddenly too much and I double over under the crushing sensation of disappointment and fear. It isn’t something I’m comfortable with, but I’ve come to expect that I will never be fully able to cope with my feelings for him. I still don’t quite know what I want, but I am absolutely sure that this life of sedentary existence is not a part of my long-term goals.

 

Eventually, my breathing slows back to normal and I can hear the muffled tune of a distant Christmas song around the pounding of blood through my head. I realize with startling clarity that I’m freezing and belatedly gather the edges of my coat around my chest, shivering against the chill that I’m not entirely convinced has anything to do with the weather.

 

I have to figure this out before I do something irrevocably stupid; before Sherlock in his infinite focus begins to understand and life between us becomes unbearably awkward.

 

My mobile buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out with numb fingers, unsurprised to see a text flashing across my screen.

 

_Come home, John._

 

And then a few seconds later:

 

_Please_

 

I sigh and rub my palm over my face, unable to dislodge the seething ball of guilt that’s festering somewhere behind my solar plexus. Returning to Baker Street was supposed to ease my broken heart, not add to it, but I’m finding that being constantly around Sherlock is only exacerbating my problems. It’s not his fault I can’t control myself around him. He’s always been an enabler, but I can try to contain my reactions to his obvious need for companionship. I can be that to him: a friend and a confidant, his protector and healer, his unfailing center when the world gets to be too much, even if I can never have from him what I ultimately want.

 

Christmas is a horrible, ridiculous time of year.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The clawing, aching panic as it rises through my chest. The sharp bitterness of bile as it floods up the back of my throat; tightness like an iron band around my lungs as I try to breathe around the tide of unwelcome emotion; the heavy, mortifying weight of tears as they burn their way around the corners of my eyes.

 

It has been a while since the nightmares have been this bad, but that doesn’t stop my limbs from shaking as I shudder my way through another panic attack. I try to remember the breathing exercises that have been beaten into my brain by numerous therapists and doctors, but the clamoring need to run is heavily outweighing any semblance of normality right now. I close my mouth around a scream of agony, humming into the quiet of the pre-dawn hours and praying I didn’t wake anyone up with my shrieking fear.

 

It takes a few moments to recognize the hovering presence standing just inside my doorway.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe out, shooting up the bed with shock and reaching for a gun I thankfully do not have, even as my addled brain registers Sherlock’s familiar scent of sleepy dishevelment. He looks bleary eyed and uncoordinated, as though his legs carried him up the staircase before he was fully awake, and I’m embarrassed to find I’m glad of his tired confusion.

 

“Are you alright?” he murmurs quietly, the rough edge of sleep still clinging to his words and adding an edge of unreality to the moment. I’m still shaking and drenched in cold sweat, but I nod weakly and sink back down into the mattress. I yank the covers up to my chin and try to ignore the way my skin is trembling with fear and humiliation. It takes all of my strength to stay silent and still as he watches me for a few more seconds before his long fingers trail down to the door handle.

 

“Stay.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it and I flush with the mortifying realization that I’ve said it out loud. He pauses in the doorway for a moment, his shoulders a rigid line of tension and indecision, and I close my eyes tightly around the hot prick of tears that start up again at his uncertainty. I can’t watch him deduce my fruitless feelings right now. My nerves are still too raw to expect any kind of sympathy from the world’s worst emotional crutch.

 

“Of course,” he says softly instead, and my eyes fly open in shock despite my best efforts. He shuffles his way across my bedroom floor, grasping the edge of my quilt and sliding gracefully between my sheets before my mind has fully registered what’s happening.

 

I can feel his heavy weight pressing down into the firm lines of my bed, his blazing heat a long line of fire up the right side of my body. I stay perfectly still, barely daring to breathe lest this all turn out to be some kind of fucked up dream, but he sighs softly and rolls his head onto my pillow, pulling and prodding me until I’ve turned onto my side and I’m enveloped in the wiry tangle of his absurdly long limbs.

 

My heart is still pounding with residual adrenaline, but I can feel myself calming within the warmth of his embrace, his slow breathing pulling mine into synch and forcing my body to relax. He nuzzles closer somehow until we’re pressed flush against each other, and I am indescribably grateful to be the little spoon for the first time in my life.

 

His hot breath tickles the back of my neck and I feel myself shiver for a completely different reason this time. He makes a contented little humming sound and rests his forehead at the top of my spine, soothing away my demons with his unexpected tact.

 

We breathe in tandem as the last vestiges of my panic ebb away slowly. I’m captivated by the gentle sweep of his thumb across the center of my sternum, and my eyes begin to droop closed despite my recent activity. I can feel the reluctant edges of sleep beginning to creep slowly into my consciousness and I marvel at his unfailing ability to ground me even as I drift off into the tempting call of dream.

 

“Good night, John,” I think I hear him whisper, breath fanning warm and comforting down the length of my spine, but I’m already asleep.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The cutting, damning sounds of anger as the violin shrieks in open octaves; the harsh line of Sherlock’s shoulders as he rails his fury into the night by way of Bach’s Partita No. 2; the aching, lingering sadness that seeps up through my bones as his frustration turns to outright despair.

 

His black moods are not nearly as prevalent as they once were, but they are still an ever-present threat that creeps between the blinding brightness of his infallible wit and the daunting shadows of emotional doubt. I listen to him play with a thickening sense of helplessness, watching him tear into his own mind with deep slashes of crippling self-deprecation.

 

Anyone who thinks Sherlock is not a sensual being has clearly never watched him with his violin. It makes part of my heart stutter when he get lost in his music; the simple sway of his body as the music crescendos, the loving caress as his fingers dance across the strings, the gentle sweep of his arm as he moves the bow through the air eliciting the gorgeous tones from the trembling instrument. Then there’s the way he cleans his precious violin: packing it up with obsessive care, sliding the bow through the soft cotton rag to remove excess rosin, quick fingers on the shoulder rest, releasing its hold from the back of the wood, the tender way he wraps the instrument in its velvet lined case.

 

It’s simply not _fair_ , that this man should be so incredibly sensual and not at all sexual. I’m absolutely sure Sherlock has no idea how incredible it is to watch him execute these minor details, even as I wonder at my own obsessive need to observe them.

 

Tonight, though, he is murdering what’s left of my sanity with his child-like petulance, and my patience is wearing thin with every brutal slash of his bow across the strings. The song itself is not unpleasant, but the way he is punishing each note as though it has caused him personal harm is heartbreaking and horrific to hear.

 

I finally put my computer aside, far too distracted by the discordant melody to write up our latest case, and stride into the kitchen to lose myself in the calming ritual of making tea. I’ve been back for three months now and this is the first time I’ve seen him this distressed. I haven’t exactly forgotten how corrosive his moods could be, but I don’t ever remember them hitting me quite this hard in the year and a half I lived with him before... well, _before_.

 

I can feel his eyes on the back of my neck as I wait for the kettle to boil and I wonder how long exactly it will be before one of us finally cracks.

 

The song ends with a flourish of vicious arpeggios and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as I hear him linger in the ensuing silence before he begins to pack the instrument away. I maintain my stoic stillness as I feel him move towards the kitchen, hoping he doesn’t intend to challenge my lack of nerve for the third time tonight. It’s not nerves that are making me weak in his presence; it’s the knowledge that at any moment my tentative happiness can be snatched from me with one telling word from my mouth or damning action as I try to hold the reins of my treacherous feelings for him. He’s made his position perfectly clear throughout the years and I’ll be damned if I’m going to ruin the best relationship I’ve ever had due to one careless mistake of blundering emotion.

 

He comes up behind me and for one heart-stopping moment I think he’s going to embrace me, to enfold me into the cradle of his long arms and hold me against his warm body. My skin aches for his touch, my limbs shaking with the restraint of holding myself back, but I won’t give in to the petty needs of the flesh. I want to lean back into his warmth, to soak up the plain affection I can see on his face every time his eyes catch mine, but I won’t be so gauche as to force him into something he clearly doesn’t want.

 

It _hurts_ , but I manage to control myself long enough to prepare the tea, every single nerve tingling at his close proximity. He eyes me warily as I hand over his cup, and I can see the dark smudges of chronic insomnia building up again beneath his eyes.

 

“Are you done?” I ask, probably harder than I should, but he just shrugs and sullenly takes his tea with an air of calculated indifference.

 

“I can’t save them all, John,” he mutters through the steam, and something in his tone causes me to pause in my criticism. His body is taut as a bowstring still; he’s positively vibrating with tension and I can tell from the way he’s studiously avoiding my gaze that he didn’t mean to rise to the bait of conversation.

 

“Sherlock,” I start, reaching a placatory hand towards him, but he flinches back as though I’ve slapped him.

 

“I don’t need your _pity_ , John,” he spits, fury like fire in his expression and it occurs to me that he’s actually upset about the way this case ended. His mug crashes to the floor with a splintering shatter of ceramic, Sherlock’s hands shaking so badly it slipped his wavering grasp. The noise is disturbingly loud and I cringe away from the instinct to go to ground, straightening my spine and forcing myself to observe him from a medical standpoint.

 

He clearly hasn’t been sleeping if the frayed edges of his expression are any indication and he visibly shrinks into himself at my penetrating stare. His jaw is a hard line of grating tension and his eyes are bloodshot and wide with exhaustion. I approach him cautiously, trying not to patronize, but genuinely worried for his health and wellbeing.

 

“Sherlock, nobody is blaming you for what happened to those girls,” I say softly, but he winces like I’ve shouted at him.

 

“What’s stopping them?” he asks, and I suddenly realize why he’s so upset.

 

“Moriarty is dead,” I state plainly and know I’m right when his face snaps up to mine.

 

“I know he’s dead,” he bites out, but there’s a tremulous edge of something I can’t place coloring his words.

 

“Everyone knows you’re not a fraud, Sherlock. You’ve proven yourself a hundred times over by now and nobody is doubting your ability to work with the Yard anymore.”

 

“I know,” he murmurs so softly I can barely hear him. “It’s not that. Well, not only that.”

 

“Then what is it?” I ask, still trying to keep my voice steady and not betray the way my heart is aching for him.

 

His eyes are blazing and fierce when he finally looks up at me, and I’m startled by the ferocity in his gaze. “How long are you going to stay, John?” he demands abruptly, and I’m so thrown by the question I actually recoil at the vitriol in his tone.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“How long are you staying this time? A month? A year? How much longer will you tolerate me before you leave again?”

 

I’m entirely speechless. My mouth opens and closes a number of times before I finally swallow back the flood of shocked spluttering, and peer curiously into his face. He looks anguished and angry, as though he didn’t mean to ask, but now that he has, he’s dreading the answer as much as he needs to hear it.

 

“Forever,” I breathe, too overwhelmed to curb my own honesty. “Forever, Sherlock. How could you even ask—” I cut myself off before the guilt of our separation can choke me. “I’ll stay with you for as long as you’ll have me,” I vow and gather my courage to look up at him again.

 

He is entirely still, face chalk-white and breathless, and then he lunges forward and wraps one large hand around the base of my skull, pulling me towards him and claiming my lips in a kiss so fervent I can feel it in my bones.

 

I whimper into his mouth and kiss him back, unleashing all of my pent-up desire against the curl of his curious tongue, my hands reaching up automatically to twine into his thick curls as he lets loose a thunderous moan. It is all teeth and tongues, too intense to be considered anything less than incendiary, too cautious to be aggressive. I can feel his jaw flexing beneath my palms, his mouth open and wet against mine and I couldn’t have dreamed anything this overpoweringly profound.

 

“John,” he husks, and it is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m dizzy and gasping, pulled off balance by the churning heat of my own arousal. He pulls me in closer until we are pressed firmly together, his long limbs entwined with mine as we snog like teenagers in the doorframe of the sitting room.

 

“Forever,” I whisper into the wide expanse of his elegant throat, and let myself sink into the giddy feeling of freefall.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The untidy fan of Sherlock’s dark curls as they sprawl across my pillow; the earthy tang of sweat and semen that lingers in the air like a warm blanket; the dark musk of his flavor still heavy and hot on the back of my tongue.

 

He looks so innocent in sleep, but I know now the filthy quirk of his lips as he swallows heavily around the head of my cock, the wanton swathe of his body beneath mine as he shudders and moans in sobbing pleasure. It’s a lovely contradiction and I can feel my breath stall out as memories clamor for attention at the forefront of my brain.

 

I can’t help the way my body draws forward, lips whispering across acres of pale skin; perfect complexion broken only by the stuttered braille of freckles and the deep red bite marks that match the exact imprint of my teeth. He stirs eventually, a writhing canvas of undeniable sensuality, and my breath catches at his slow smile into the curve of my pillow.

 

“Good morning,” he rumbles and my blood seems to quicken at the gravelly quality of his voice, still rough and hushed from dream. It is sonorous and nearly subsonic and it seems to sink into my very bones like a balm across my aching soul. He rolls lazily onto his side, sliding a possessive hand up the curve of my waist and I shiver as gooseflesh chases its way through my skin.

 

Our movements are slow and languid, the sleepy curl of easy passion building steadily between us as he brushes his lips along my exposed collarbone, long fingers sweeping down to the dip of my spine and pulling me in closer. He licks a long line up the column of my throat and I nearly choke around the dizzying heave of want that spikes through my consciousness like a cannon blast. His hands are elegant and inquisitive, and I gasp hotly as he brushes a curious finger across the tight furl of my anus. His grin is predatory and dangerous as he eases me onto my back; all feral power and barely-checked restraint, and I shiver as I realize I want this from him more than anything in the world.

 

He seems to dominate my very breath as he sucks a bruising kiss into the hinge of my jaw and the noises I’m making now will probably be embarrassing when I possess enough coherency to give a shit. I never dreamed it would feel like this; that his constant scrutiny and laser focus would feel possessive instead of abrasive, that the quiet tilt of his head as he takes me apart piece by piece would feel so overwhelmingly delicious in the bold hours of the morning. He licks a kiss into my mouth and I moan against his tongue, uncaring about the desperate way my body clings to his like a drowning man to a raft. He is my stability and my center and I give myself to him freely, with no regrets except that it took us this bloody long to get here.

 

He leans over the side of the mattress, scrambling across the floor and between our rumpled clothing to find the still open bottle of lubricant, slick dripping in lazy rivulets down the side of the plastic. It looks about as debauched as I feel and the thought has me giggling before I can stop myself. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at me, but the twitch of his lips is enough to prove that he’s not taking it personally. I watch as he tips some of the viscous fluid onto his fingers, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in my stomach, but unable to tear my eyes away from his mesmerizing movements. He is captivating in his scrutiny and I am glad of the distraction as he leans forward again to run his open mouth across my hipbone, smearing sticky kisses along the inside of my thigh until he can bury his face in my groin and inhale with obscene relish.

 

It is base and vulgar, and I feel my face heat in inexplicable arousal and not a small amount of embarrassment. “Sherlock,” I begin, noting the way my voice cracks with longing, but he takes the opportunity to draw one of my testicles into the hot cavity of his mouth and my brain seems to melt into a puddle of sexually crazed jelly.

 

It’s so fucking _unfair_ that he should be this good at this. My body arches of its own volition, seeking the heat of his mouth as he licks a broad stripe up the underside of my cock. I can feel my control beginning to waver, my blatant need eddying with every swipe of his wicked tongue across my skin. It should be overwhelming, but I find myself craving more even as his clever fingers inch their way past my perineum and into the hot furrow of my crack.

 

The biting stretch of penetration is enough to pull me out of the haze of lust, and I gasp in confused arousal as he pushes relentlessly forward, sheathing one of his slim fingers inside me with one continuous flex of his wrist. I feel torn apart and exposed, and a part of me wants to berate him for his lack of warning, but then he twists his hand, scraping the very edge of his fingertip across my prostate and my vision explodes into a burst of light. He hums around my shaft, and I’m startled to realize I’d nearly forgotten that my prick is still firmly between his sinful lips.

 

“Christ,” I gasp, unsure if I should buck up into his mouth or rock back onto his fingers. I’m suspended on a wave of desire and he flicks the tip of his tongue against my frenulum, my vision beginning to blur around the edges as instinct takes over. I’m writhing against the mattress, completely given over to sensation as he dissects the very deepest of my filthy fantasies with an infuriatingly smug smirk.

 

I feel like I’m shattering apart, my body coiling tighter and tighter around the slick intrusion of his beautiful fingers and I can’t hold back the groan of genuine bereavement as he pulls back with a twist that makes my insides quiver and my stomach tighten.

 

I’ve never felt this out of control with a lover before; like if he lets go of me for even a second, I will splinter apart with the force of my desire for him. It’s terrifying and seductive at the same time, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that my feelings are reciprocated. My cock slips from his lips with an obscene slurp, but I’m too far gone to even stop the small whimper that escapes my throat. He looks about as lost as I feel as he slowly slinks over me, lithe muscles pulling taut beneath the pale canvas of his skin. He blinks down at me with a quiet understanding I’m only now beginning to comprehend; the tentative weave of emotion clearly as frightening to him as it is in my own mind.

 

I realize I’m panting and force my lungs to heave in a shuttered gasp of breath as he looms over me, eyes bright and wild, mouth a gaping slash of bruised red and I wind an arm around his shoulders to drag him towards me. I need him _closer_ , as though my very life depends on his immediate proximity, and I realize with a jolt that I want him inside me with a need that’s bordering on obsession.

 

I can feel my face flushing with the knowledge, all thoughts of previous encounters vanishing at the way his pupils pool dark and heavy, bleeding black into the crisp blue of his irises. He looks about as wrecked as I feel and I groan out a plea as he presses his lips to mine. I can feel him trembling above me, trepidation and uncertainty a strange taste on him, and I suddenly realize this might be his first time being the penetrative partner.

 

I hadn’t thought to ask last night as I took him brutally apart at the seams, but now, in the bright and uncompromising light of day, I am ashamed at my mistake.

 

“Sherlock,” I start, unsure of what I want to say. Heat and need are still fizzling restlessly beneath my skin, but the frantic stab of urgency seems to be slowly edging off as the weight of the moment presses upon my consciousness like a warm blanket. He regards me through heavy lidded eyes before his lips curl up at the corners in what can only be labelled a shy smile. I never would have imagined him this open, this vulnerable, but now that I’ve had it, have seen him bared and exposed and so assuredly  _human_ , I know I will never let him go.

 

He bends forward and presses a gentle kiss to my mouth, the static flare of eagerness still present beneath the layers of heady stillness, but tamped back now and controlled in ways I would never have given him credit for. This kiss is completely different than any we’ve shared before: full of promise and forgiveness, of benediction and clarity, and the uncompromising, undeniable tinge of overwhelming  _love_.

 

“John,” he whispers against my lower lip, as though it’s the most beautiful word he’s ever articulated, and I feel a swell of dangerous emotion catch and spread through my chest. I clutch him tighter, pouring everything I’ve never said into the twist of my lips, the slide of my tongue, and I feel him shudder against me as need begins to overpower tenderness.

 

I can feel the hard length of his erection pressing mercilessly into my inner thigh, and just like that my blood is boiling again with the blazing need to be filled. His hips twitch and my back bows forward, our mouths breaking apart to gasp wetly into the air between us. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and my head falls back with a groan so deep, I’m surprised my voice doesn’t shake apart with the vibrations.

 

His teeth catch roughly along the ridge of my collarbone and I know that when I look there later, I will find a mark to rival the ones I left on him. It’s an admittedly appealing thought and I open my mouth to encourage more when his fingers slip into my arse again, the discomfort only mild now as my body stretches to accommodate their girth. I can feel his grin against my skin as my hips rock into his, drawing him in with rhythmic squeezes of my inner muscles. He tenses against me and I can feel his magnificent control begin to slip as he paints the side of my neck in wet, open-mouthed kisses.

 

He drags in a shaking breath and pulls away slightly, and I am mortified at the disgruntled whine that slips out of my throat without my permission. He flashes me a dark look full of obvious intent and rummages in the side table for a condom, rolling it down his length before settling between my shamelessly spread thighs once more.

 

I can feel my own cock twitch as his stomach brushes against the sensitive glans, foreskin pulled back to expose the shining purple head. I’m leaking copious amounts of pre-come and it would be embarrassing if not for the way his bottom lip catches in his teeth, his eyes raking across my slick skin like a physical caress. It’s not nearly enough friction and I grind forward in the search for more, my whole body trembling on the knife-edge of pleasure as he slowly presses forward. The tip of his erection settles heavily against my hole and the whole world seems to shrink down into just the two of us, poised on the edge of oblivion as his darkened gaze catches mine.

 

I can see him waiting for confirmation, for the permission he needs to be able to let go and take me freely and I silently marvel at his inexplicable trust in me. I have no desire to test his limits, though, so I tilt my hips forward, revelling at the aching stretch as his cock sinks slowly past my body’s natural resistance, filling me and claiming me in ways I hadn’t even realized I wanted.

 

His head falls back, his mouth open and wet as he shakes his way through the initial breaching. Sherlock’s jaw clenches and he breathes out a deliberate huff of air before he seems to come back to himself, eyes glassy and unfocused as he gazes down at me in wonder. I feel the swelling tide of emotion begin to invade my throat, so I pull his lips to mine to stifle the words spinning across my tongue and behind my teeth. He rocks into me once, his entire body quivering with the instinct to rut and I let my legs fall open further, wordlessly encouraging him to use me in any way he wants.

 

I try to reciprocate the feeling, to add to the balance of give-take I can feel building between us, but my brain is slowly deteriorating in the wake of his ferocity as he fucks into me with long, measured thrusts. It’s so good— _God_ , it’s good, and I scream my pleasure into his open mouth as he leans forward to devour me once more. I can feel my own control spiralling away, my entire body thrumming with the heat of imminent orgasm. It’s too fast to be satisfying, too soon to be this destroyed, but I can feel the tenuous threads of my consciousness shaking apart as his hips slam into mine. It’s rough and dirty and everything I’ve ever wanted from him, tinged with that ever-present sensation of all-consuming trust and I feel my pulse speed up, electrostatic surges of hormones zinging through my blood as I tip rapidly towards ecstasy.

 

“John,” he gasps, head thrown back, shoulders tensing as my muscles begin to tighten. My hands sweep up the long line of his ribs, fingernails clawing along the length of his spine as my bollocks draw up tight. He cants his hips forward a fraction more and my vision whites out as his cock glances across my prostate. I cry out, unable to stop the noises shuddering through my lungs as he pounds into me; the pulsing, driving rhythm of his hips matched only by the racing of my blood as I try to breathe around the rising clench of my lungs.

 

“ _Fuck_ , John,” he groans, and that one curse purred out in his velvety baritone is my ultimate undoing. I feel myself falling, pushing up into his heaving body as his abdomen scrapes along my cock, my legs winding tight around his hips as he drives into me in a punishing pace. I can feel my resistance starting to crumble, tingles shooting straight to my fingertips as he rears back, sliding slick palms under my arse and heaving me up into his lap.

 

It’s fast and rough, the snap of his hips countered by the slam of the headboard into the wall. My skin feels tight and flushed, my head dizzy with the syrupy-sweetness of pheromones as they run haywire through my veins. I’m teetering on the edge of pleasure, my muscles tensing with strain until with one final thrust he begins to shake apart in my arms.

 

I can actually feel his cock thicken within me and he jolts forward, stilling his hips for one breathtaking second before he pumps forward feebly a few more times. I groan with him as he comes, my own impending orgasm tasting heavy and sticky-sweet like burnt sugar on the back of my tongue. He braces himself over me, arms shaking as he bends his head forward to place a reverent kiss to the very corner of my mouth. I’m desperate to come, my entire body shaking with tension, but I kiss him back just as gently.

 

“God, John,” he pants, his eyes dilating into focus as he blinks down at me, enraptured. I bite my lip and rock my hips up, feeling the soft squelch of the condom as it slides around his softening cock and I’m slightly horrified that it turns me on. The fact that I’ve done this to him, that I’ve stripped him down to his basest, most animalistic state is a heady thing and my back arches in search of friction.

 

The movement seems to shake him back to reality at last and he grimaces a little as he slowly slides his oversensitive penis from my arse. I can see his fascination as he stares at my gaping hole and I would be embarrassed if not for the desperation making my vision swim. I’m so close I can  _taste_ it; iron tang of blood and salt of sweat, the sizzling, electric snap of my nerves as my skin tingles.

 

I let him go reluctantly as he scoots backwards down the bed, pressing small kisses down my abdomen until with a surge of wet heat, he swallows me down to the root. I cry out, unable to stop the sounds of torturous bliss as my blood surges to the surface of my skin. I feel him shift and then there are three of his long fingers curling into me, unerringly finding my prostate and rubbing against it with increasing pressure.

 

My back bows forwards, fists flying into his hair as I shatter apart; blinding spots of white light popping behind my eyelids as every single nerve in my body seems to spasm with ecstasy. I can feel his throat working, wicked tongue swiping lazy circles around my frenulum and milking every drop of come from me as I quake against the sheets. He swallows heavily, fingers still rubbing tantalizingly gentle against my now oversensitive prostate. My cock jerks once more, a small dribble of come splashing along his tongue and he hums in obscene pleasure at the offering.

 

My cock falls from his lips finally with a crudely slick noise, but he pushes his fingers further into me for one more blindingly beautiful moment as though he can’t bear to let me go, before easing back gently. I feel empty and spent, my entire body a tumble of useless muscle and bone against the damp mattress, but I make an effort to tug him up to me for a kiss full of lazy contentment and unconcealed joy.

 

“Mmm, morning,” I murmur into his skin, allowing him to rearrange our bodies for maximum comfort. I end up pooled across his chest, my head resting delicately over the swell of one sinewy pectoral, counting the beats of his heart as our bodies finally calm into normality.

 

I can feel him smile into the top of my head and the rumble of his breathy chuckle as it travels up through his lungs.

 

“Go back to sleep, John,” he says, plush lips catching in my hair. I want to argue, but I can feel the seductive call of lethargy tugging at my mind. I fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his fingers stroking through my hair and the warm slide of his skin against mine.

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The staccato beat of the freezing rain as it pounds into the care-worn streets of London’s seedier underbelly; the iron taste of petrichor and blood as it hammers through my skull; the thrill of adrenaline and epinephrine as it races along my veins; the heart-stopping, terror filled moment of deafening silence immediately following the sharp crack of a gunshot.

 

There is something beautifully tragic about the way snow catches in Sherlock’s lashes; his long, elegant fingers batting away the wisps of cold while he scowls in frustration at the slowly freezing crime scene. It’s definitely a seven, if not an eight, and Greg looks about as stumped as I feel. Sherlock sucks in a deep breath with a startled _oh_ , and I just know we’re about to hear the whole story unravelled like a ball of arrogant twine, but I’m honestly not bothered. I’m too cold to do more than shiver in my jacket, my normal thick coat having been dropped unceremoniously into an honest to god  _barrel_ of rotting flesh. I love this man, but sometimes I want to strangle him.

 

The sharp sting of a hefty February gust comes spilling through the alley and I tremble violently as I stamp my feet in my heavy boots. But then there is a sound like scraping metal and Greg looks up in surprise, Sherlock’s narrow silhouette outlined momentarily against the flare of a neon light and then there is a flurry of movement and I am thrown to the ground as six feet of consulting detective ploughs into me, knocking me backwards onto the frozen concrete with a sickening thud.

 

My head cracks against the pavement and my vision dims for a moment, the copper taste of blood bursting across my tongue as I involuntarily bite through my cheek. There is the unmistakable sound of a chamber filling and the click of a safety snapping back and I’ve rolled us over, pinning Sherlock to the ground with all of my weight; instinct kicking in even as I swallow back a flood of nausea.

 

I can hear Greg shouting and the terrible slap of shoes on slick concrete, but all of my attention is honed on the deafening sound of a bullet cracking through the air. I duck my head just in time, feeling the familiar heat of pain blossoming instantly across my side, and I think for one horrible second that I’ve been shot again. The world fades in and out of focus for a few moments before I’m snapped back into the present by Sherlock’s sharp fingers clutching frantically at my neck, tugging ineffectually on my arm laid so securely across his chest.

 

“John!” he’s shouting and I blink down into his face with a calm sense of unreality. He looks terrified and furious, his lips pressed white against his teeth and he shakes me roughly, quick fingers rubbing incongruously softly into the back of my hair.

 

I don’t think about it—I just lean forward and press my mouth to his, in full view of anyone who happens to be looking at us. He freezes for half a second before his palms come up to my jaw, kissing me back with a ferocious kind of hunger I’ve only ever felt with him. It lasts a total of maybe three seconds, but I can tell from the way his body is shaking that he needed this possessive confirmation as much as I did. We break apart reluctantly and I’m abruptly aware of the heavy weight of a dozen shocked stares; the entirety of NSY seeming to have frozen at our unconscious display.

 

“Bloody hell,” Donovan says into the thick silence that seems to have fallen. “I’ve just won the pool!”

 

Sherlock scowls beneath me, but I can see the glint of genuine affection shining through his eyes, so I just chuckle wryly and allow him to push me off. I land heavily on my arse and wince as the bruises of the past ten minutes suddenly catch up to me with painful intensity. My head is pounding and I can taste stale bile at the back of my throat as I try to swallow past the insistent embarrassment that’s welling up in my chest.

 

“Right then.” Greg catches my eye with one eyebrow raised and an impressive smirk, and I know I’m going to pay for our stolen kiss with relentless ribbing and hearty guffaws at our next pub night. I can’t be bothered to care, however. There’s a loud ringing noise buzzing through my ears and I’m starting to get that light-headed sensation that accompanies mild concussion.

 

Sherlock stands awkwardly, missing his usual inherent grace for once, and reaches a hand down to pull me to my feet. I stagger a little, massaging my temples as my vision swims unexpectedly. He keeps his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, but I can tell by the way his muscles are stretched tight that he’s waiting for the inevitable mockery as much as I am.

 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks softly, squeezing my shoulder once in honest concern.

 

“I think so, yeah,” I reply a little dazedly. All of the accompanying officers are trying very obviously not to stare at us, even as the now disarmed suspect struggles feebly against the side of the half-frozen skip. “A bit knocked about, but nothing new.” I try to smile, but I can feel it turn into a grimace. Sherlock’s jaw hardens and he narrows his eyes, pulling me closer to wrap one lanky arm around my ribs. I’m too bleary to protest with any effect, so I allow myself to sink into the comforting warmth of his inexplicably soft body.

 

“John and I are going home, Lestrade,” Sherlock says stiffly and I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

 

“But the case—” Greg stutters.

 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock huffs, and I can hear the familiar arrogance building up around him like a shield. “It was obviously the sister in law. Ask him,” he nods his head towards the spluttering captive, “what kind of anti-virus software he uses on his computer. That should give you all the information you need.”

 

Greg looks about as baffled as I feel, but Sherlock’s tone is that of obvious finality and he just sighs and nods in resignation.

 

“I’ll phone you if we need more,” he says evenly, and heads towards the main street, flagging down a taxi and ushering us into it with a nod of thanks. I slide onto the cheap leather seats and try to stop my head from exploding with long, deep breaths. Sherlock’s weight settles next to me and he reaches for the door, but Greg catches it just in time with one gruff hand on the window.

 

“Oh and incidentally,” Greg murmurs quietly, leaning forward with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. “I’m actually glad for the both of you.” He raises his eyebrows significantly at me and I try valiantly not to die of sheer embarrassment. “It’s about bloody time,” he adds with a cheeky wink and draws himself back to slam the door.

 

The air is thick and tense between us, Sherlock leaning forward to mutter our address to the seemingly oblivious cabbie and me attempting to keep the nausea at bay as my injuries and my impossible nerves war for dominance. We’ve never discussed going public with our relationship and I’m horribly aware of the stiff way Sherlock is sitting in the cab. He looks like he’s about to spring up from his seat at any moment and make a mad dash for freedom, and my stomach sinks at the implication.

 

“John,” he finally starts, his tone soft and controlled and obviously, terribly careful. It’s awful and stilted and I suddenly feel like my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.

 

“It’s alright,” I manage, aiming for a light shrug, but knowing it sounds strained. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think—”

 

“ _John_ ,” he presses, and he turns in his seat to face me fully, his thick brows drawn together in concentration. My mouth snaps shut of its own volition as he takes both of my hands in his, gloved thumbs smoothing over my knuckles in calming little circles. “I don’t care,” he whispers fiercely. “I didn’t think you wanted—but I’m glad—” he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise. “I don’t mind. Hell, John, I would shout it from the rooftops if I thought for one second you would be amenable.”

 

I can’t help the huff of breathless laughter that bubbles up the back of my throat; relief and unexpected joy tumbling through my chest as I reach a shaky hand forward to pull him close. “I love you,” I whisper against his mouth, ignoring his sharp intake of breath and pressing forward more. I’m suddenly dizzy for a completely different reason, my entire body seeming to glow as he kisses me back with long, sensual sweeps of his tongue and the teasing sting of teeth.

 

“You’re  _mine_ , John Watson,” he growls into the delicate shell of my ear, a frisson of want sliding hotly down my spine at his words. “And I’m going to make every effort to make sure everybody knows it.”

 

: :

 

This is what I remember:

 

The fresh, clean scent of early spring in the countryside; the heavy buzz of insect and bird song ringing merrily through the air; the warm, reassuring presence of Sherlock’s hand at the small of my back as he leads me blindfolded down an even, gravelled path.

 

“Sherlock, seriously,” I complain, stumbling for the tenth time as my shoes catch on the small stones. His other arm comes up around my waist and I am mildly gratified to feel his breath catch at the contact. It has only been a year of this; of our relationship trickling into the complex intimacy of sexual contact, and sometimes I feel a little overwhelmed by it all. But then Sherlock’s hand will catch mine, long fingers sliding between my own over the dinner table, or a proprietary hand will appear at my waist as we stand idle before the crowd of reporters and I’ll feel my entire chest swell with undeniable affection. He’s possessive and jealous and I’d be lying if I said it isn’t wonderfully arousing.

 

“Almost there,” he breathes and I feel a raised stair with the toe of my shoe, stepping up automatically and swaying as my equilibrium shifts again. I can hear him rummaging in his pockets and then the blatant sound of clinking keys, and I begin to wonder again what exactly his ‘surprise’ entails.

 

There’s the unmistakable sound of a door sweeping open and his hand pushes me forward; I trip a little over the doorjamb, but he catches me and pulls me back against his chest.

 

“Alright,” he says softly and tugs at the blindfold.

 

I blink into the sudden brightness, my eyes dilating slowly into focus and I feel my breath catch. I’m standing at the threshold of what looks like a cozy country cottage; wood beams exposed to create a plethora of little nooks to store books and other oddities. It’s bare and sparse, no furniture to speak of, but the kitchen looks warm and inviting and I move automatically towards it as though magnetized, my footsteps echoing sharply in the silence.

 

“Are we going on holiday?” I finally ask, peering out of the kitchen window into what proves to be a cheerful little garden complete with vegetable stakes.

 

“It’s ours, John,” he says softly, and for a moment I think I’ve misheard somehow.

 

“I beg your pardon?” I splutter out, confused and concerned and awed all at once.

 

“Well, technically it’s mine. I did put your name on the title deeds, though, so I suppose it makes no difference.”

 

I stare up at him in utter disbelief for a few seconds before my brain seems to finally catch up with the rest of the world.

 

“We’re moving?” I say stupidly, torn between excitement and honest trepidation. I never envisioned leaving Baker Street again and the thought is oddly disconcerting.

 

“Not immediately, no,” he replies, shrugging in apparent nonchalance, but I can tell by the way his fingers are twitching against the edge of the worktop that he’s nervous. “I just saw the opportunity and thought it might be nice for you to have a long-term plan. You tend to work more efficiently and relax more frequently if you have an eventual goal.”

 

A slow, wide smile etches its way across my face and I am powerless to stop the swell of emotion as it pulses up through my brain. “You intend to keep me around, then?” I ask in what I hope comes out as dry humor, but I can tell from the way his head snaps up and his eyes narrow that I’m unsuccessful in keeping the edge of nervous self-deprecation out of my tone.

 

“You did say forever, John,” he says quietly, his head ducking down and the very tips of his ears staining a light pink. I can tell he’s embarrassed by his own sentimentality, and my heart seems to swell to bursting. Before I can stop myself, I’ve tackled him down against the kitchen worktop, pulling his face to mine and letting my actions speak the words I’m still not entirely comfortable saying.

 

“So I did,” I whisper against his tongue and I can feel his beatific grin against my lips as he pulls me in closer. “Now, what do you say we break in the bedroom?” I murmur into his throat, revelling in the shiver that travels through his skin as he catches my lips once more.

 

“Sounds perfect,” he purrs, grabbing me by the hips and slinging me towards the small staircase that presumably leads to the upper floor. “I’m afraid there isn’t a bed,” he adds, sounding a touch disappointed.

 

“Pfft. Beds,” I huff out, grabbing his wrist and tugging him with me up the stairs, adopting my own rendition of his poshest, most arch tone. “Beds are boring.”

 

I remember the vague sight of the empty, but spacious bedroom. I remember the feeling of Sherlock’s skin against mine as we rut together like teenagers on the sun-warmed hardwood floor. I remember the feeling of contentment settling finally for the first time somewhere deep in the recesses of my bruised heart. I remember his delighted expression when I tell him I have nothing against beekeeping as a viable hobby. I remember the distinct feeling of wholehearted love as we lay tangled together on the spread-out canvas of his beloved coat.

 

“What are you thinking?” he asks softly as the light outside fades slowly into mottled shades of pink, his long fingers stroking lazy paths down the length of my spine.

 

“Just making memories,” I murmur back, burying my fingers in his hair and swallowing the deep rumble of his sleepy chuckles against my tongue.

 

Tomorrow we will head back to the city; to the busy bustle of crime scenes and take-away, to the endless excitement of foot chases and adrenaline, to the brilliant life we’ve carved out for ourselves amid the rushing chaos of London’s life force. For now, though, I’m content to lose myself in the pale expanse of Sherlock’s gloriously naked body against mine and reflect that forever doesn’t sound like nearly long enough.

 

“Come, John,” Sherlock says, patting my hip with one large hand and extracting himself to stand with a grimace of discomfort. “Wait until you see the local police force. They’re completely useless.”

 

I laugh at his absurd and obvious pleasure and allow myself to be hauled to my feet. Perhaps this isn’t going to be quite as peaceful as I’d originally thought, but as I listen to him excitedly tell me all about the unsolved murders in the area, I realize I wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

This is what I remember.

 

 

 

_Life is about love, last minutes and lost evenings_  
 _About fire in our bellies and and our furtive little feelings_  
 _And the aching amplitudes that set our needles all a-flickering_  
 _And help us with remembering that the only thing that’s left to do is live_  
 _~I Knew Prufrock Before he was Famous, Frank Turner_

 


End file.
